#anyway end headcanon

[iszapizza]

what if eli had to be the one to give thrawn that first haircut?

[14dayswithyou]

Give Redacted a kiss for me!!!

Do you have any dark/creepy headcanons for Redacted? I’m very curious ^^

✦゜ANSWERED: I know you asked for [REDACTED] specifically, but everything mentioned below could also apply to Ren as well ^^;

cw: mentions of gore, torture, (one line about) cannibalism, NSFW themes, and just general creepy behaviour

I'm sure most people already know about Ren's red room days, but for the newer folks: he used to livestream himself torturing his victims on the dark web. He would also harvest and sell their organs for extra cash.

His red room phase began after a group of upperclassmen started livestreaming themselves bullying people (Angel included) for attention online. If those teens wanted a taste of online fame that badly, Ren would be all too happy to give it to them — especially after he heard all the degrading things they said about Angel during their stream.

Ren has probably sniffed (licked???) Angel's underwear on multiple occasions lmao

He also keeps a bunch of their discarded cups, mugs, bottles, etc. — and on the days when he's feeling especially lonely — Ren likes to put his lips where Angel's would've been and treat it like it's an indirect kiss.

If Angel is fine with it, Ren would be more than willing to carve his name into their skin. He'd have to use an ample amount of his numbing cream though (typically reserved for when he gives himself tattoos and piercings), since he doesn't want them to be in any pain.

Similarly, he'd also be willing to carve their name into his skin as well — as many times as Angel would want. But he already has multiple tattoos of their name on his skin, so.... gksgsjj

I'm sure everyone already knows this, but Ren has an entire shrine dedicated to Angel. He keeps all his sentimental and stolen items there.

Ren genuinely has no empathy for anyone other than Angel, so if they were to ask him to murder his own mother (or his sister, his best friend, etc.) and bring back their heart, he'd do it with a smile on his face.

Because he has no empathy, Ren would probably enjoy watching snuff films like it's any other B-tier horror film. To him, it's just more research material on how he can get rid of his competition.

I've mentioned this in the past, but Ren has jacked off to the thought of Angel while in the library lol

I made a post back in 2022 that mentioned how Ren would willingly offer up any of his body parts to a cannibal!Angel, and I think the point still stands!!

He likes to put Angel's stolen laundry on his body pillow and rut into/hump it 😟

I once mentioned that Ren would slap a barcode sticker on his sledgehammer to make it look less... questionable whenever he carries it around in broad daylight — but alongside that, I think he'd also carry around some tools and an unopened can of paint to make it seem like he's just doing renovations. In reality, he'd probably force his victims to drink paint or gargle nails teehee

Builder AU except Ren mistook a body for plywood??? Why is he hammering so many nails into them?? Why is he feeding it into a wood chipper???

Builder AU except Ren gives Angel a different meaning to getting nailed and railed???????? Jackhammering???????? Getting screwed sideways????? KGJDSGNK It's 2AM I'm losing da plot now T_T I'll shut up

[brushstrokes-art]

au where pit’s a trans girl who hasn’t figured it out yet and then the mirror of truth speedruns dp’s transition. and nothing else changes.

[geekylled]

Ken Sato, outfielder for the Yomiuri Giants, comes clean about giant spending habits!

In a recent interview, All-Star player Kenji Sato confessed to spending absurd amounts of money on grossly large sports memorabilia— mostly his own.

“I have a good, totally plausible reason for it,” Sato had plead, unconvincingly.

Sato bat an average of .420 last season, which puts him among the best. “It’s— ugh. Hm. Erm. It’s.” Unfortunately, he struck out severely in attempting to explain his spending habits.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it!” Sato swore, but then refused to give exact numbers in terms of pricing for those who may want to “try it”.

For the readers not in the know, a 15-foot recreation of Sato’s jersey recently went viral when commission details were leaked to the public. Our interviewer asked for a comment concerning the jersey, to which Sato is quoted to have said: “Well. I guess you can say I have a pretty big fan.”

[juniemunie]

This post wouldn't leave my mind.

Error and Ink meeting before they completely become themselves is so....

ლ(ಥ益ಥლ) HHHHHHH

[egophiliac]

happy new year Ego!!! Just wanted to let you know that I absolutely adore your twst fanart and the tags are just an absolute pleasure to read! You are my greatest inspiration for my personal twst art and I just wanted to thank you for your wonderful masterpieces <333 if possible, may I ask what are some of your headcanons for the diasomnia family? If not for diasomnia then any other characters are fine as well!

thank you, and happy new year! 💚💜💚 that is amazing to hear; it's always a little bewildering but super flattering that other people like my silly little doodles so much!

I don't think I really have any really solid headcanons and also canon keeps validating me left and right (FLUFFY DOMESTIC DIAFAM IS REAL). mostly just kind of...impressions and general thoughts, if that makes sense! lately though I've been kind of obsessed with thinking about Lilia's hair, and specifically when/why he ended up cutting it. (l-look, we're bouncing around the timeline and I gotta make decisions about these things when I draw, it's relevant) (I mean I would probably be weirdly fixated on this anyway, but.)

I think I've settled on the idea that he kept it long until he went to NRC, partly because 1) I like drawing The Ponytail, and 2) I think he thought of NRC as a chance to reinvent himself a bit! he gets to go and be a wacky carefree teenager for a few years and have fun! (officially he's there to keep an eye on Son #1, but how much trouble could he get into, really.) so he gave himself a Cool Teen Haircut to go with his fresh new Cool Teen Persona!

also maybe he had some reflection on his hair's troubled past with three kids...

...and had to weigh his vanity versus the fact that he was going off to be around hundreds of kids on a daily basis, and. the choice suddenly seemed obvious.

[edwinisms]

you know. I think the reasons it feels so literally narratively wrong when people refer to charles as being straight (such as in interviews where his love life comes up and so on) are that A) he’s never deemed outright straight in the show, so it’s just an assumption that he must be straight by default (which is silly in a show like this), and B) what he says following edwin’s confession. I know I’m biased, but even when I try to look at it as neutrally as possible, the way he reacts in general and the specific words he uses just don’t sound right when you imagine them being said by a Totally Definitely Straight guy.

first of all if you actually listen to it instead of absorbing the scene superficially it’s not particularly a rejection at all, and the actors have stated that themselves– it’s not him saying no, it’s him saying “I can’t give you an answer right now, but I will eventually”. that’s not an interpretation, that’s literally just the truth of what he said (and again, the actors agree). can you imagine a straight guy saying that, or possibly even more damning, “we have literally forever to figure out the rest [“the rest” meaning anything that goes beyond the kind of love charles already solidly has for him]”.

imagine you’re a straight man who’s unwaveringly confident in his orientation and your gay best friend confesses his feelings for you. you would not respond with the implication there is a “the rest” to figure out. since the main, obvious obstacle would be your solid lack of attraction to men, that’d probably be essential to your response– it wouldn’t be a “I can’t say–“ it’d be a “I can’t be–“. and on top of all that, I feel like the whole thing would have to sound far more apologetic– “I’m sorry, I love you and that’ll never change, but I just can’t love you the way that you love me.” something like that, right?

tldr: this is a rare instance in television where assuming a character is straight by default makes Less sense than the alternative. and charles’ choice of words in the confession overtly suggest that he is, at the very least, unsure of his orientation.

[catcomixzstudios]

I can barely begin to express how much the course of my life has been altered because of a 40 minute highlight video done by @jelloapocalypse and friends riffing over a 20 year old sky pirate game.

I made an off-handed comment after watching it together with two of my longtime friends, about how much I wish I had what Vyrsa had, and one of those friends STRAIGHT-UP TELLS ME that her and her wife have been crushing on me for a while.

The feeling was mutual, though I'd been of course hesitant to even hint at it.

Anyway now a few months later, we're a thruple, and we decided to honor the genesis of our relationship by cosplaying as the trio that made it a reality for my 30th birthday!

PinkCatNinja, me (CatComixzStudios), and ArtieStokes as Aika, Vyce Vyrsa, and Fina respectively, from SKIES OF ARCADIA!

And as a bonus, a comment I left on the video before my egg would crack completely (was still IDing as genderfluid at the time)

[yore-donatsu]

Some idiot #sketches on Ramattra and D-va bc I like them 😊 (both as silly friends and/or like a ship💜) Before some people start moaning: I love to see our great ommiac in good company and be happy ! 😚

[turtleblogatlast]

Something I really like is that April’s constant stream of odd jobs she goes through is somewhat reflected in the boys as well. Like, you have April working at random pizza places or getting a crane license or being fully willing to apply for a job at a place clearly made out of cardboard. Then you have the boys as well who do anything from working as a basketball mascot, building a massive dog park, being waiters, getting a whole band gig at a theme park, etc, etc-

Main difference is that April actively applies for these jobs (and is hopefully paid for the short time she’s in them) whereas for the bros the jobs usually find them (and they practically never get paid.) It doesn’t even stop at jobs either, they just seem to casually amass skills in general.

I don’t know, I like how both April and the turtles are just so ready and willing to do things. Sure, they’re not always good at these things, but they do them readily! In a way, being heroes is just another job (well, more like volunteer work/vigilantism/another fun activity) that they initially took on because of their general sense of “why not?”

They’re very willing and open to trying out new things despite their tendency to revert back to what they enjoy (and how commonly trying new things ends up going wrong), and I think that adaptational interest of theirs really helps them be well rounded in multiple regards.

[mayabishopgold]

Andrea DeLuca-Bishop | Station 19 - Season7

Oh, my God. We're pregnant?

We're pregnant.

[laney-rockin]

In Wrath of Khan, Spock gifts Kirk "A Tale of Two Cities" in an actual physical copy of the book [very vintage for the 23rd century].

THAT GOT ME THINKING-

How many times did Spock gift Kirk a physical book? Did he restlessly scour for hours trying to find an old copy of a book that he knew Kirk would adore?

I can only imagine Spock, a logical and very composed Vulcan, going slightly insane trying to find bound books just so he can see his captain light up with a smile as Spock gifts it to him.

Which- might I add- is an adorable picture to paint in one's head.

[moonsidesong]

i wanted to make popoi a pokemon . whats one more haunted toy for the pokemon franchise am i right

they dont have names cuz im really not good at making those... i just made these for fun

bonus shiny forms. i based it off this one really weird looking scan of evil popoi i see sometimes that blows up the saturation of the colors really weirdly so his outline looks super blue instead of the usual purple. i misremembered the eyes from that scan also looking green-ish, but i looked again after i drew this and that was wrong. oh well i think he looks cute with them

[silverskye13]

The Best Seat in the House

Summoning Helsknight is easy. Their souls are so inextricably tangled, they are nearly the same person. It's terrifying. It's exhilarating. Its

Welsknight is flying through the end. He has the coordinates to his destination memorized, like a lodestone in his heart. There is something about a person's blood sweeping so deep into the ground that makes the connection almost physical, like a thread pulling. He thinks this must be what sends doves and pigeons home. Why salmon swim upstream. There's something about blood

It's mutual, this dance. Hatred and disgust and thrill. It's beyond words, somewhere deeper, in the roots of teeth and the marrow of bones. Inextricably tied, souls and blood.

Helsknight is the perfect knight.

Tenets. Poise. Form. Kit.

Bloodlust.

Helsknight is the perfect knight.

They don't talk anymore. They don't need to. Words fail. Words circle and circle and circle and go nowhere.

It reads our thoughts.

Helsknight isn't waiting for him when he lands, but Welsknight can feel him on the other side of everything, like an itch beneath his skin. Like if he just found the right place, the source, where the itch is the most intense and bothersome, he could set a blade to his skin and dig Helsknight out.

In a way, that's what he's doing.

And yet they play the game.

By the time Welsknight has folded his elytra and put on his breastplate, Helsknight is there. The itch in his skin is crawling across the surface, spider legs and teeth; a brand, a flaying. He turns to face his other half.

Helsknight is a perfect knight. He's a fortress, a wall, and he's right there with a sword in his hand. Welsknight's strongest images of him are of blazing eyes in the depths of a blackened helm, all netherite and embers. Maybe it's hels that scours him black, the baking heat and unending fire. Maybe it's just that he's standing by Wels, and Wels is light and life and brilliance and

Welsknight is not a perfect knight. If he were, Helsknight wouldn't exist.

And the universe said the darkness you face is within you

There is something brutally honest about a battle like this, here, bared for the void, and the universe. A person can lie with words, but swords, like angels, can only speak the truth. In the face of death, they can only be who they are.

Helsknight is death and terror. He must be, because that is what Welsknight feels every time they meet.

One step, two, a mirrored circle across the end stone. There is no dust here to kick up, no gravel to throw. This island in particular is stark and flat. No upper hand, no useful terrain. Three steps, four, swords in hands. No shields, only armor, and the places it fails. Welsknight's breaths are long and loud and reverberate in his helm, wash back across his face with heat and condensation.

Helsknight is sparks and smoke and perfect form. The red plume in his helm sometimes sparks with the glimmer of his eyes. There is no moon in the End, and Helsknight's fire is an island of firelight in starry black.

Silence draws out between them like a blade.

Five steps

Six

And the universe said

Helsknight springs first, because he always does. Welsknight can feel his impatience like goosebumps, a phantom thrill of expectation. Welsknight meets him, because to be too far to one side is to be too close to the End. The ringing clash and slithering screech of metal on metal is like lightning and thunder in the perfect silence. They test each other, feints and parries.

Helsknight is impatient, and Welsknight shudders with it. He is always impatient. It's a thirst for blood, and a thirst for efficiency, and pride in the decisiveness of his hand. Helsknight would kill him gladly in one stroke if he could. His is not the joy of suffering, but the joy of superiority.

And yet they play the game

They break apart. Welsknight needs time to recover and reassess. Neither of them is wounded, but Helsknight is powerful and sure, and Welsknight's wrist stings, and his elbow twinges. Too many solid strikes caught instead of deflected. Too many tests done wrong. Mistakes. Too many mistakes.

Helsknight is humoring him. There is derision in the air like the scorn of distant thunder. It makes Welsknight mean, feeling it passing over. If Helsknight wanted, he could press his advantage until Welsknight was off the edge of the world. Welsknight can feel his other half's sense of superiority. It stokes the embers of Welsknight's own pride. He wants to rip the smugness out of Helsknight with his bare hands, bloodied to the elbow.

The red in Helsknight's eyes glimmer, a dare, an invitation. Come and try, he says, come and try. He says it with every line in his body, with the way he holds the point of his sword just a little too far out, a Fool's Guard. An invitation to where the plates of his armor gap at his armpit, reticulate near his waist. An invitation in the tilt of his head, slightly upwards, to look down. Slightly upwards, where the gorget and the helmet separate to show a hint of vulnerability.

Helsknight is a fortress.

And yet they play

One step, two, circling. Swords pointing and guarding. Three steps, four, Welsknight only knows he's caught his breath, because the heat of it is rolling across his face again. His hair is sticky with sweat, and threatens to thread into his eyes. Five steps. Helsknight blinks slowly, boredly. The bloody red light of his eyes winks out and returns. Six steps.

Welsknight attacks first this time. It's a lunge he knows will miss, but he sweeps the blade up anyway and feels the clamor of disrupted momentum as he's deflected away. Helsknight bursts forward a fist and punches Welsknight hard in the center of his breastplate. It kicks away some of his air, surprises him, surprises him again when that same hand snaps up to grab his gorget and pull, threatening to drag Welsknight off his feet. Helsknight's knee comes up and Welsknight catches it, throwing his shoulder into Helsknight's stomach.

They fall hard on the stone.

And yet they

It's tangling limbs, and wrestling, and that little bit of air Welsknight lost is felt, because he can't catch his breath. They're both on top of and below each other. The horizon is yellow and black and stars and stone, twisting. Swords are useless this close, but they grip them desperately anyway, because to lose a weapon is to lose the fight.

Helsknight is the first one who manages to get to his feet. He is a dark tower rising, the kind of thing that eclipses and imprisons. Welsknight can taste blood in his mouth from Helsknight's elbow ringing hard against his helm. His vision is a spattering of stars and colors that aren't supposed to exist.

Helsknight waits, impatient and seething, for Welsknight to get back to his feet. Sometimes, Welsknight wishes the flower of chivalry wasn't so good at reducing him to a pile of steel and guts. He might bring himself to respect it, if it didn't.

Welsknight is tired. He can't catch his breath. His vision still tilts slightly.

Helsknight is a dark tower risen.

Take a breath now.

Helsknight springs. When his sword lands on Welsknight's, it sends lightning through every nerve. Welsknight retreats a step.

Take another.

Another. Another. Metal on metal. Welsknight's only thought as he parries and steps backwards, is that he continue to circle.

I will tell the player a story.

Helsknight's satisfaction is cloying. It fills Welsknight's mouth with a taste like vinegar and rot. Welsknight's guard breaks. He can see his mistake and do nothing about it. Helsknight's sword shivers and rings as it rebounds off his chest plate and plants its tip in Welsknight's armpit, where the plates in his armor gap. The wound isn't deep. It dips in and out of his skin so quick and seamless, Welsknight feels the trickle of blood long before he feels pain.

It contains the truth safely, in a cage of words.

Helsknight's two-handed stroke steals Welsknight's sword from his hands. Welsknight leaps the next sword strike, rolls, and gets a cut on his ankle for his trouble. Standing is a labor.

He still can't catch his breath.

Helsknight's blade has so little blood on it, only the handspan at its tip glitters darkly. Why, then, does Welsknight feel so shaky. Dread of the inevitable prickles his spine, and chasing it like a hound is Helsknight's vindication. I knew I was better, I am always better.

Why do we even play these games?

Sometimes the player dreamed it was lost in a story

Helsknight waits for Welsknight to pick up his sword. He is a shark circling, mad for a few drops of blood. Welsknight stands in the center of the island and waits, turning, for Helsknight to spiral towards him. They are a disaster, a collision course, gravity pulling. They are the inevitable, and their blood pulls them to each other just as much as thought and wit and loathing.

A lodestone in their souls.

Helsknight springs.

And yet they play the game

Welsknight gets a single lucky strike. His sword tears between two of Helsknight's plates, and he feels the soft resistance of flesh against his blade. It's low on Helsknight's hip, painful, but far from deadly. Helsknight proves it by slamming the pommel of his sword into Welsknight's faceplate. If it weren't for the nose guard, his nose would be broken. His eyes still phosphor from the hit, a world of infinite, blinding stars. His feet are kicked out from underneath him.

And the player started to breathe faster and deeper, and it realized it was alive

Welsknight reaches for his dropped sword again. Helsknight doesn't back away from him this time. Welsknight deflects the stab that would have killed him, swings the pommel of his sword against Helsknight's knee.

You. You.

Helsknight drops, a hand on his battered joint. Then he lunges, and they are wrestling again. Blood from Helsknight's wound spatters Welsknight, makes one of his hands slick. He holds his sword in both hands and uses it as a staff, trying to ward away Helsknight's blade locked against it. With the force of his shoving, and the weight of him bearing down, Welsknight's arms are giving.

You. You.

His arms are giving. The crossed blades are too close to his neck. He kicks. He grunts.

Helsknight is a dark tower, the kind that eclipses vision. His eyes are red stars in the dark, distant and bloody.

You are alive.

One of Welsknight's arms collapse. His brief hope this might pitch Helsknight off-balance flickers out before it can really settle.

Helsknight is a perfect knight. Tenets. Poise. Form. Kit. Bloodlust. Bloodlust. Bloodlust. Welsknight can feel it like a wound on his skin. Like blood in his eyes. Like iron on his tongue. Like a netherite blade so close to his neck he can't catch his breath.

I want to help them speak the word they fear.

Helsknight kept his blades sharp. It probably had something to do with perfection. In the moment before blade touches skin, Welsknight searches his other half. He finds what he expects to see.

Disgust at what is happening, and blood and pain and struggle. Resentment at being brought here only for this one thing, for this spiral to an end. Vindication of his skills, pride in his efficiency, disdain for Welsknight's clumsiness.

Welsknight does not find what he expects, as well.

He does not find remorse.

He does not find guilt.

He finds only a subtle annoyance where those things should be, disdain that Welsknight bothers to search at all.

Welsknight smirks. He doesn't need the reminder that his other half is evil, but it is nice to know, even if he's lost, he's still right.

The days were short; there was much to do; and death was a temporary inconvenience.

Helsknight is alone on an island in the end. He is surrounded by the remains of Welsknight's gear, and the spattering of his own blood against the end stone. Whenever Welsknight dies, when they fight here at the end of the world, with nothing to distract each other from each other, it feels like Helsknight has woken up for the first time in a long time. The smothering thoughts, emotions, intensities of his Hermit lift and dissipate, and it feels like he has finally caught his breath for the first time in years.

Helsknight sits on his knees on the stone until his joints ache, and his hip burns, and his leggings are a mess of blood, and he breathes. Long, deep, like cold water in a desert.

Finally, he stands. It takes effort. He has to use his sword as a crutch. But he stands. He looks out at the nothingness, at the end, at the jaws of the universe in every direction.

And the game was over and the player woke up from the dream.

Helsknight snorts derisively.

"I would rather sleep," he says.

He vanishes back to hels.

[egophiliac]

it's been an absolute shitball of a week, so here's something massively self-indulgent to make myself feel better.

[lyculuscaelus]

We’re in one of the oldest fandoms where the canon itself is long lost and the source materials for us to draw inspiration from are those of the earliest fanfics themselves—two of which being commonly accepted as beta canon due to their top quality. Sometimes these fanfics contradict each other due to all sorts of OOCs and inconsistencies which is forcing us to choose our own sources to rely on to draw fanart and write fanfics. Each generation of fanfic writers are introducing more headcanons in their works and sometimes their fanfics of fanfics become so popular that they are prompting new sub-fandoms to emerge, inspiring more people to draw fanart and write fanfics for these fanfics of fanfics. It’s almost as if there is a family tree of fanfics and we’re now reaching the third generation and beyond